The Elven Queen
by Blue Tears
Summary: Written for Fairytale Challenge: After Sam finds an ancient mirror in Bilbo's old study his and Frodo's world gets turned upside down...


**Title:** The Elven Queen   
**Author:** Bluetears07  
**Contact info:**   
**Rating:** PG  
**Pairing:** Frodo/Sam   
**Category: **Fairytale AU; Romance  
**Disclaimer:** The characters used in the following belong to Tolkien and the original The Snow Queen fairytale belongs to Hans Christian Andersen. Written for Karadin's Fairytale Challenge.

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**The Elven Queen**

Deep within the hollowed, winding tunnels of Bag End, hidden from all who did not know of its existence, was a secret room laden with treasures that humble hobbits of the Shire could never fathom within their long lifetimes. The once master of Bag End, Mister Bilbo Baggins, hid his long fabled plunder there to keep it safe from prying, covetous hands. These treasures, once guarded by a grand dragon, ranged from intricate gold medallions to priceless heirlooms from nearly every race upon the great, vast lands of Middle-Earth.

One such heirloom was a shining, silver framed hand mirror. At a simple glance there was nothing special to the trinket, however one could say the same of a certain ring that old Bilbo found on the same journey (but that is another story). The true magnificence of the mirror was found within the shards. Once belonging to a Goblin, the mirror was enchanted with an ancient spell only known to few.

The spell enchanted the mirror so that when it was shattered the broken shards, if cut into one's skin, would seek the host's heart and turn it to ice. If, by the unlucky chance, a wayward shard fell into one's eye they would become blind to all that was good and pure within their world. In both cases the host would cease to tolerate simple flaws in those they once loved and would soon become obsessed with perfection.

It is with this mirror's migration from its hidden room to old Bilbo's study, by way of an old traveling trunk, that our story truly begins.

* * *

The sweltering heat of the mid-summer's day sun was beginning to get to Sam's naturally enthusiastic attitude that he seemed to permanently posses towards his gardening; especially for his master, Mister Frodo Baggins. While the beads of perspiration slipped down the tips of his curled flaxen hair to obscure his vision, Sam's fingers kept daftly pricking themselves upon the thorns of Mister Frodo's rose bush. Once pricked the young hobbit would curse himself a "ninnyhammer" and attempt to prune another stem. Oh, but how Sam loved tending that particular flower for it was his master's favorite and was nestled just outside his bedroom window. 

Unbeknownst to Sam, Frodo, sitting in the cool shade cast by a nearby tree, had been watching his gardener for the past hour. The master of Bag End seemed to be reading the same paragraph over and over again the entire time. One of his favorite things in all the Shire was to watch his gardener bring life into his garden with such caring caresses of his fingertips and gentle coos that Sam thought none could hear. Shifting his cramping legs, Frodo felt something in his trouser pocket clank lightly against something else.

After finally giving up on reading his leather-bound book and placing the literature on the grass next to him, Frodo pulled out the contents of his pocket. He discovered that the item which had been making such a noise was the golden medallion threaded upon a thin gold strand he had been admiring earlier in the confines of Bilbo's old study. That very morning he had been going through the old trunk stuffed in the corner of the study and had discovered, what he guessed to be, an old Elvish heirloom.

Now that he had the time to look over the pendant in the summer sunlight, Frodo noticed the engraved Elvish symbols etched deep into the gold. As he racked his mind for what the symbols meant, Frodo's solitude was interrupted by a rather loud self-deprecating curse from Sam. A rush of sympathy flooded Frodo's judgment and he rose quietly. With his head bent, still trying to remember the symbols, Frodo silently walked to where his gardener stood as he worked and looked up. Unaware that his master was standing behind him, Sam paused to wipe away the sheen of newly formed sweat adorning his brow.

"Sam?" A voice soft as the petals of his beloved roses inquired just behind Sam, startling him bad enough to drop his pruning shears. Whirling around, Sam found himself reflected in shimmering blue pools. With wide eyes, Sam sighed in relief to see his master's smiling countenance. It had always brought a flood of warmth to Sam's heart when Mister Frodo smiled, especially at him and because of him.

"Beggin' your pardon, Mister Frodo," Sam apologized as he bent to pick up his dropped shears. "I-I didn't see you standing there," he nervously finished, twisting the handle of his shears in his callused hands. How could he have known? _There's nothing to apologize for, my dear sweet Sam_, Frodo thought, fingering the golden strand between his fingers but nevertheless remaining quiet.

With a deft movement, Frodo hid the medallion in his palm just before taking one of Sam's larger hands in his own. "I want you to have this, dear Samwise," Frodo whispered with a light flush tingeing the tips of his ears and slowly creeping up to paint his cheeks a fetching pink. He ran his fingertips along the curled knuckles of Sam's fingers and pulled them back. Tucking the golden jewelry in Sam's palm and folding his fingers back over it, Frodo waited with bated breath for him to open his hand. After quickly shoving the pair of shears, handle first, in his trouser pocket, Sam opened his hand and gazed fixedly at the ancient Elven pendant.

Examining the markings etched into the gold with the tips of his fingers, Sam asked if his master knew what the symbols stood for. Frodo answered truthfully by admitting he didn't quite know yet. Then it hit Sam suddenly; the markings were of the Elvish alphabet that Mister Bilbo once had showed him.

"Is it," Sam dropped his voice as he glanced around the near empty garden before continuing in a hushed, conspirator's voice, "…Elvish?" The astonished, unadulterated glint of hope that flickered for a moment in Sam's eyes was payment enough for a pile of golden heirlooms. Frodo nodded with an even brighter smile than he had worn before. His young gardener loved Elves and always, at least when Bilbo was still master of Bag End, wished to hear old tales full of their ethereal ways.

"Of course," he added, taking the pendant by the golden string. As he opened the looped strand, he slipped the golden thread over Sam's head. The soft pads of his thumbs grazed ever so lightly against the pointed tips of Sam's ears and brushed the soft golden curls at his nape. Tugging gently on the medallion, Frodo centered it on Sam's chest to lie just above his quick beating heart, before the younger hobbit could protest.

"I-I…Mister Frodo you know I can't be accepting this…" Sam stammered, though his fingers seemed to disagree with his lips as they played with the thin woven thread of gold laced around his neck. Frodo knew from the moment he found the pendant that morning who he wanted to see wearing it about their neck. However, along with that knowledge he knew it would be harder convincing the hobbit to accept the gift permanently. "Mister Frodo…please, I can't take it." His voice grew impossibly small as he tugged at the medallion and started to raise the strand over his head.

"It's a gift, Sam," Frodo implored calmly, pulling Sam's hands away from his neck. "Keep it, for my sake if not because of your own desire to do so." Leaning close to Sam's face, Frodo placed the lightest of tender, chaste kisses upon his flushed cheek. Without another word exchanged between them, Frodo pulled away and went to retrieve his leather-bound book in order to read free of distractions inside.

If he had stayed outside just a moment longer, he would have caught his gardener's deep blush as he drew his hand up to press lightly against his cheek where Frodo's lips had been pressed but moments previous.

* * *

As soon as summer had settled into the Shire and both master and gardener of Bag End had settled into their daily routine, winter came blustering along, threatening to throw discord into their normally contented lives. However, attempting to remain undaunted by the change of weather, Frodo started a new routine for himself. One that closely involved a certain gardener-turned-valet during the bitter cold winter seasons. During the day the hobbit lad would tend to all of Frodo's needs, prepare his meals and bring hot tea to his study every couple of hours. In the evening, after a hearty supper, Frodo would ask Sam to linger a little longer so he could read him stories of Elves and far away places. 

No matter how much Sam loved stories of Elves, and he did, Frodo knew that the young hobbit had been raised in the Gamgee household where propriety came before personal fancy. Therefore, Frodo knew it would be a fine job to convince Sam he _wanted_ to take the time to read a story full of Elves to him. Nothing seemed to please Frodo more than seeing the pure look of wonder upon Sam's face when he listened to enchanting tales of the ethereal beings he admired so much. Being the clever hobbit he was, this night Frodo implored Sam's capable hands in cleaning Bilbo's study while he read aloud to practice vocally translating Elvish.

His master, seated comfortably upon a cushioned bench made for two, read aloud one of Sam's favorite stories concerning the Elves of Lórien. Frodo noticed, with a furtive smile, that Sam had stopped cleaning a half an hour after he started reading. The lad was distractedly dusting the same object he had pulled out of an old traveling trunk at the beginning of the tale. Swallowing the lump that had formed in the back of his throat while he watched the muscles strain and relax in Sam's hands as he manipulated the duster, Frodo continued reading.

"It has been said by many travelers that once looking upon the Lady Galadriel's fair face and flaxen hair all else of beauty and splendor are simply nothing in comparison, for she is perfection in itself." Frodo glanced up from the page after stumbling over the elvish word for flaxen. In the dim lamp light the golden strands woven through Sam's curls glinted like shimmering stars, catching Frodo's gaze and drawing it ever deeper. His gardener seemed not to notice the hesitation but saw his master's eyes upon his face. With haste and a light flush, the young hobbit set back to actually dusting and pulled out another trinket from the ancient trunk. Reluctantly pulling his gaze away, Frodo's eyes dropped to the faded pages before him. "The lady was a fabled foreteller of the future, whom lingered in the Elven lands of Lórien. A mirror was her gateway to look in upon things yet to pass…" In the quiet, as Frodo tried to remember the next symbol, Sam's quiet gasp echoed loudly. Frodo looked up to find his gardener holding a silver laced hand mirror.

"Now would you look at that?" Sam sighed, turning the fragile looking mirror over in his hands. A warm flush ran up Sam's neck to tint the tips of his ears as always whenever Frodo would look at him silently. "Beggin' your pardon, sir, but did you not just say mirror?" Sam asked as he looked over the top of the mirror at his master's astonished face, knuckles turning white as they gripped the silver stem that led to the reflective mirror.

"I did indeed, Sam," Frodo replied as he slowly closed his book and placed it next to him on the bench. Standing, the master of Bag End crossed the room to investigate his gardener's findings. The item did not look like any heirloom he had seen before, leastways from the back. "Are there any markings?" A question, if answered in the affirmative, might yield an answer as to whose heirloom it might be.

"Why, no, Mister Frodo, none at all," Sam answered as he turned his wrist to look at the back of the hand mirror once more. "The silver seems to be polished to shine and there's not a tarnish spot anywhere," he observed as Frodo stood before him with a hand outstretched to receive the ancient trinket. Sam carefully placed the wiry silver stem into Frodo's hand.

The older hobbit stepped back to have a better look at the shimmering silver under the golden light from a lit lamp that lay upon the desk. In the short distance from where Sam stood next to the open trunk and the desk, Frodo's heel collided with the raised ridge of the small rug extending from the center of the room. Surprised and suddenly thrown off balance, Frodo stumbled and fell backwards. On instinct his hands flailed out to grab anything to steady himself. The hand clutching the mirror struck against the sharp wooden edge of the desk and shattered into a million tiny shards. The smallest, most infinitesimal shard fell into Frodo's eye. A sharp, abrupt cry tore from his lips as he started to rub furiously at the agitated eye.

"Mister Frodo!" Sam cried rushing to his fallen master's side. Dropping to his knees, Sam looked down into the pale face contorted in pain. His hand slipped to the back of Frodo's head to cradle the dark curled strands at his nape, the other hand placed gently on the older hobbit's chest. Without a word, pale, ink-stained fingers grabbed his wrist with an unforeseen strength. "You're hurting me, sir," Sam said through clenched teeth as his eyes squinted in an attempt to block out the image and pain. Frodo's grip tightened upon the wrist of Sam's hand covering his heart. A sudden chill bit at Sam's fingertips and palm, seeming to radiated from Frodo's heart. "My, you're freezing!" As soon as the words parted from Sam's lips Frodo's grip slackened and his hands fell limp, covering Sam's fingers. "Are you alright, Mister Frodo?" Panic threaded through Sam's voice as he pulled his master into a sitting position.

The skin on the back of Frodo's neck, starting from the base before crawling up to his nape, began to turn frigid beneath Sam's warm caress. In Sam's arms, Frodo lay still for what seemed like ages before the dusk lashes fringing his eyes began to flutter. When the pale lids of Frodo's eyes opened the once startling blue color of his eyes seemed to be magnified tenfold, as if they were filled with liquid ice.

"I'm fine." There was a haughty edge to Frodo's voice that Sam had never heard before. The realization that Sam was holding him hit and the younger hobbit's hands were suddenly batted away, followed quickly by a spiteful comment. "You're always worrying about me far too much, Samwise," Frodo spat as he pushed Sam's caring hands away to stand on his own. Sam had never heard anyone, his Mister Frodo of all hobbits, say his name with such unguarded loathing. Looking down at Sam still kneeling on the floor, Frodo turned his back to the lad as he spoke. "Why don't you stick to what you know best; dirt and gardening."

As Frodo had intended, whether he knew he had or not, the words cut straight to Sam's gentle heart. Every vowel and consonant wrapped about his spirit, suffocating the long tended flames of admiration that burned within him just for his Frodo. Sure enough Sam was a humble hobbit who wore his heart on his sleeve and gardening may have been the one thing he excelled at, but Sam knew just as much about taking care of Mister Frodo as he did about tending plants.

_If I don't worry about you, who will? _Sam thought sadly to himself as he slowly stood and shrank back to tend to the dust covering the traveling trunk. Behind him, Sam heard the soft padding of Frodo's feet as they made their way back to the bench. After the quiet creak of the wood giving way to Frodo's weight sounded in his ears, Sam turned around with an optimistic half smile. In an attempt to change the suddenly dark mood encircling the pair of hobbits, Sam opened his mouth to suggest that Frodo continue reading. "Mayhaps you could read more about the Elves, sir?" His voice was quiet as he spoke, unsure what might set his master off.

"_Elves_, Sam?" Frodo voice seemed to have grown louder that Sam had ever heard it before. The way his master had sneered the first word sent a frightened shiver through Sam's body. "Why? Neither you nor I will ever _see_ an Elf. Why should we torment ourselves with fanciful tales about such intangible, perfect creatures?" This series of cynical questions shocked and stunned Sam into silence, sending his mouth gaping as he watched Frodo throw the Elven book to the floor. Sam flinched as the leather smacked against the ground with a resounding thud.

"Y-you don't mean that…," was the only response Sam could conjure as Frodo's eyes fell shut. Sam had never seen his master in such a state before; snapping at every comment Sam made. Several moments of dead silence filled the ever growing space between master and gardener. Finally speaking, Frodo brushed past Sam whispering, "I think it's best if you go home now, Sam." Heart crushed and torn asunder, Sam trudged down the dimly lit, winding halls of Bag End until he found the front door and stepped out. A fleeting glance back inside showed him that Frodo had made straight for his bedroom. Biting his lower lip, Sam cast his eyes away from Frodo's retreating back and shut the round smial's front door behind him.

Frustrated and angry, without fully understanding why, Frodo decided to take an evening walk through the Shire to clear his head. Wrapped up in a thick cloak, Frodo found his feet leading him to the moonlit woods. An eerie silence seemed to fill the air, save the occasional cracking of fallen branches underfoot. A pale wash of moonlight seemed to be concentrated upon a path several feet in the same direction as Frodo's path. Like a sudden mist or invading fog, gentle music flowed over the light breeze to Frodo's ears. The golden notes of the Elven tongue surrounded him as he halted in the middle of the path watching the light glow brighter with each passing moment.

"Elves…," he whispered in amazement as a small party of the ethereal beings slowly made their way towards him. The rising and falling ebb and flow of their ancient song slowed to a quiet murmur as one fair-haired Elven lady stepped forward and kneeled, becoming eye level with Frodo. Taking his small, pale hand in her own larger one the lady smiled and spoke in the common tongue.

"Frodo Baggins of the Shire, our meeting has long been foreseen within the crystal waters of my mirror." Her voice was like Elven music itself, only deeper and smoother as the words flowed from her lips. Frodo felt his breath catch in his chest; kneeled before him was perfection itself.

"By the stars in the heavens, you are the fair Lady Galadriel…"

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**AN:** Thank you very much for reading, and a big thank you to Cassiopeia3019 for beta-reading. 


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